


Miss Quietlistener

by MilkJelly



Category: Marvel, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fan Erik, M/M, Miss Lonelyhearts AU, New York City, Newspaper column writer Charles, Professor Erik Lehnsherr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-28 20:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8461111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkJelly/pseuds/MilkJelly
Summary: # Miss Lonelyhearts AU.After accidentally hurting his sister during a sudden power eruption, Charles Xavier has determined not to use his power again and started working for a mutant newspaper, writing replies to letters from perplexed, helpless mutants. When Charles comes across a letter with the signature Metallic Soul, he is interested in meeting this mysterious (and sexy, as Charles later finds out) fan of his.





	1. Ms. Quietlistener goes to dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first time writing original English fan fiction instead of translating Chinese ones into English. Hope you would enjoy it. I am thinking about setting the story off as a very depressed story but it seems that I am losing the grip of the depressing mood...... Anyhow, it was meant to be sad at the beginning.

Charles Xavier lies back in his chair and lets out a muffled sigh, rubbing his temples, his left hand still resting on the keys of the type-writer. A piece of paper sits on the type-writer, with lines of typed letters scribbled over by pencil. At his hand, slowly growing cold, is a cup of black tea. He does not drink coffee anymore. High level of caffeine exhilarates him, making his “curse” harder to control —— that is how he insists on calling it ever since the accident.

He takes a sip from the paper cup and glances at the letter to which he has been struggling to come up with a reply. The sheet of light-pink paper is crawled with thin, curly, timid pale blue characters, like hungry grass growing on a barren land.

_Dear Miss Quietlistener,_

_I move things, and I can hear people’s thoughts. Mama is scared when she realized I can tell when she is thinking about leaving us. It all came to me several weeks ago and it’s really hard for me to cope…… Sometimes, when I am really, really angry, things around me move about and it’s very scary. And I make people afraid of me. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t like what I can do so far…… I admit it’s like magic, and it should be what little girls like me have been craving for…… but now it’s just bothering me. I don’t want it. I don’t like it at all. What should I do, Miss Quietlistener?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Greyish Red._

Charles has come across this type of letters several times. When mutants first discover their abilities, the experience is usually intermingled with fear and discomfort. He was scared, too, as he found out that he is a mind-reader. A thirteen-year-old boy then, Charles was often thrown out of sleep by the constant murmurs, sometimes shouts, of people’s inner voices. He heard hatred, love, envy, anger…… It was all too much for him to bear. He cried sometimes at nights when headaches came to him, gripping his head, crushing it with fierce tides of thoughts. He knows exactly how Greyish Red feels, but something is keeping him from trickling his ideas onto the paper.

He wants to comfort her, to sooth her fear, yet the keys feels as stiff as iron nails hammered into the machine. His sentences are frozen at the tip of his fingers, and he can only type out shattered thoughts and broken phrases.

His phone rings, the monotonous beeps sounds lifeless and machine-like to him. The income call reads “Raven” on the bluish screen. He picks up the cell phone and presses the button. He still refuses touch-screen, and Raven sometimes mocks him that he behaves “like a printed, smelly book”.

“Charles, what the f**k do you think you’re doing? Do you even remember our dinner with Hank today? Don’t tell me that you are still in your office! The dinner starts in ten minutes and you’d better be quick! ”

She hangs up.

Charles puts down the phone and begins collecting his belongings. He still feels twinges of guilt when he hears his sister’s voice, remembering how she shrieked in pain when his “curse” went out of control one year, six months and 12 days ago.

He never brings much to work. A wallet, a pack of nicotine gums, which he chews whenever people’s thoughts swarm into his mind, and his reading glasses. He occupies a small office in this newspaper firm, at a quiet, solitary corner, perfect for the mood he needs for his work. Sebastian Shaw, the owner of the newspaper, did not hesitate to assign him an office. “I trust you can do whatever it takes to boost the sale of this paper in the office, Miss Quietlistener,” said Shaw, his voice slithering, his eyes a pair of rhinestone.

Although Shaw is never outspoken about it, Charles knows his job is out of sorts, that the position of Miss Quietlistener is actually a joke for the firm. After all, when Emma Frost created this position for her friend’s brother, she only thought about giving Charles a decent job so that Raven would stop being a pain in the ass. The job did not mean to be serious; it should have just been a shelter for Charles during the storm of his guilt after the accident.

It turned out, however, Charles has become attached to the job and was unwilling to quit when New York Times offered him a place (He did not apply for the place himself; Raven created a resume for him and sent it somehow against his will). So he remains Miss Quietlistener of Evolutionees, writing for mutants to encourage them to accept themselves, to continue their lives, to know that they are not alone.

He arrives at the restaurant ten minutes later than the scheduled time, breathless and blushing. When Raven lays eyes upon him she dashes towards her brother. Her expression turns from exasperation to worried anxiety.

“You okay, Charles?”

“A little short of breaths.”

“Okay.”

She leads him to the table where a pale young man is already waiting. The man is constantly pushing up his glasses with his index finger. Charles cannot help but notice his green nervousness radiating from his forced, friendly smile.

“You must be Hank. It’s a pleasure.”

“Mr. Xavier, the pleasure is mine.”

Hank’s voice is choked and strained. Charles smiles as friendly as he could. He does not wish to frighten the boy. Raven stands by their side, biting her lower lip, her eyes darting nervously between them. For a second Charles thinks that his sister is turning blue again. When they were young, Raven could not control who she is turning into; once Charles walked into the dining room to discover two plumbers in exact terrified reflection of each other. Later on, Charles found out that the unstable side of his sister’s power is only triggered by violent emotions, such as extreme anxiety.

The two exchange a firm handshake. And Raven sooths.

They sit down on the comfortable chairs. Lit by warm, orange light, tables decorated with delicate red roses, this cozy restaurant does create a romantic ambiance for couples, which discomforts Charles.

“So, uh, Raven told me that you work at a laboratory?”

Charles breaks the suffocating silence. His sentence is trembling. Emotions are always contagious; because of his “curse” Charles is very easily affected by feelings of people around him. Right now, the nervousness squeezes his stomach and makes him want to vomit.

“Yes, Mr. Xavier. I work at Columbia.”

Hank pushes his glasses again and looks down. In fact, Hank’s eyes are glued to the table all the time, as if he is enchanted by the texture of the wooden table.

Charles raises his eyebrows, “that’s pretty decent, Hank. And, please, call me Charles. ‘Mr. Xavier’ sounds too distant.”

“I’m sorry, Mr…… Charles.”

Hank swallows in the middle of the sentence as Raven pinches him on the arm. Then, to cooperate with Charles’ effort of continuing a conversation, he adds, “Raven told me you work for Evolutionees. I read that paper everyday. I think Evolutionees has a very neat style, and I appreciate the articles’ succinct dictions…… so which department exactly do you work for…… Charles?”

Charles darts a look at Raven and sees her blushing. Seems that his sister still believes that his job is too embarrassing to be mentioned in front of a boyfriend.

Without much hesitation, Charles replies, “I’m Miss Quietlistener.”

He did not mean to shame the boy, but it appears that these three simple words have unsettled Hank. Gesturing helplessly, Hank manages to say, “I’m sorry if this is embarrassing…… I mean, Raven never told me about it.”

“She shouldn’t have. She still needs time to get used to it.”

Charles smiles at the couple, and bitterness encroaches his consciousness. If only he could make people react less. His “curse” can help him do it, but he has sworn not to use it again.

“But I do read your replies sometimes. They are really touching and vibrant…… I just never thought that such a sensitive, understanding tone can be written by a man.”

Hank gives him a timid grin, and Charles likes him a bit more. Raven, on the other hand, seems desperate to guide the conversation to another less uncomfortable direction, something she is, frankly, terrible at.

“Charles is in love with his letters, aren’t you, Charles? Especially that person called…… what’s his name…… ‘Metallic Soul’. Charles brings his letters home and keeps them in a box on the shelf. Those are his real treasures. Can you believe it, Hank? I can never understand that.”

Raven chuckles, trying to bring the atmosphere back to normal. Hank beams in obedience, and Charles does the same. Neither of the men present would dare to do anything to displease Miss Raven Xavier, and both of them do so out of love.

As for Metallic Soul…… Charles has to admit he has certain obsession about this mysterious reader who writes to him almost every week. His hand-writing is hard and neat, yet the contents are often soft and resonating in some ways. Metallic Soul is both powerful and fragile; powerful is how the world perceives him to be, fragile is how he sees himself sometimes. He needed a vent, but he cannot stand the idea of anyone around him seeing his secretly soft insides. So he turned to Miss Quietlistener.

At first Charles posted his replies on the newspaper. However, as letters from Metallic Soul accumulate, Charles experienced increasing amount of personal feelings towards this anonymous reader. His sense of attachment sprouted and stuffed his heart. Therefore, he ceased to post his replies to Metallic Soul on the paper, but writes to him in private instead, still under the mask of Miss Quietlistener. He knows Metallic Soul is content with how things are right now; they are secret friends, each carrying a fake identity under which they crawl together and hug each other for the tiny bits of warmth, for tiny bits of comfort.

The waitress serves them beef and salad.

In lighter silence they chew their food, Hank still a little uncomfortable. Charles senses the mutual love between the couple as tender whispers from their minds. And he smiles again. It is through these moments is he reminded of glowing happiness, of how time can be fluid gold instead of slimy mud. He wishes his sister to be happy, always.

Charles has spared himself from hoping. His life has been shaped already, or so it seems to him.


	2. Ms. Quietlistener remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles, Raven and Hank talk about Hank's job at Columbia, and guess who is in charge of project Cerebro? Charles thinks back at the accident on his way back home from the restaurant. In his apartment Charles starts writing reply to Greyish Red (I think most of you have got it, right? It's Jean Grey).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I understand it's a bit too slow...... But they will definitely meet each other in the next chapter, I promise ! 
> 
> BTW, when I follow “the story writes itself” strategy it's easy for me to get wordy......

As the dinner proceeds, Charles’ uneasiness subsides. Hank turns out to share much in common with him, and the initial tension due to nervousness gradually dispenses. It is a relief for all three of them. The atmosphere is significantly brighter by the end of the dinner, as they sit and chat about Hank’s work, just finished with the creamy puddings.

“ I majored in mechanic engineering at Columbia, and now I am working on a research project about constructing a machine called Cerebro. The machine helps telepaths to focus their energy so that the range of their powers can be magnified. My boss, Mr. Lehnsherr, actually thinks that Cerebro can help us find more mutants.”

“ Hank’s boss is a real dickhead, that Erik Lehnsherr,” says Raven, shaking her head (and also trying to divert Charles’ attention from the word “telepath”), “Hank has to work overtime for most days of the week, and that dickhead is extremely picky about Hank’s work. Hank’s colleagues secretly call him ‘Magneto’ because he controls metals, that’s his power. Just an arrogant asshole. It feels like he could control some random sharp metal thing and stab it into whoever is against him.”

Charles does not know how to react for a second. He understands that in order not to make Raven turn blue he has to consent whatever she is saying; on the other hand, he feels that this evaluation is too harsh to some extent. Requiring for perfection is a professional attitude for a researcher. There is nothing to be blamed about that. To Charles, who has seen the most clever ones of “dickheads” during his Oxford literature days, certain peculiarities of geniuses and scholars can be tolerated.

Within several milliseconds Charles decides to grin and to concur.

“ I’m very sorry for that. He does sound like a total jerk.”

“ No, no, it’s not like that…… Yes, Mr. Lehnsherr is a very…… uh, serious individual, but he loves his work and is just being strict due to his academic interest and zest.”

Hank smiles at Raven tenderly. Charles takes the glass from the table and sips the amber-colored alcohol, feeling it sliding down his throat, its rich, mellow texture relaxing his stomach. He is a good scotch drinker and never gets too much intoxicated out of the drink; meanwhile, Raven’s face is a ripe apple, and so is Hank’s.

In fact, he has never been drunk ever since he started receiving letters from Metallic Soul, and he does not know why. During the first several weeks after the accident, he locked himself up with all the alcohol he could find in his house, trying to numb himself with spirit drinks. For days his temples kept throbbing due to hangovers, and his senses became less acute, which actually pleased him at the time. There were fewer voices; what took their place was the endless, blunt buzzing in his head, but no more anguished mutters or sorrowful cries. He was imbued with dull happiness. And because of that he and Raven argued, yet he was strangely cautious during these arguments. She threw stuff while he remained as calm as he could, his mind a pot of icy, blue flame burning in alcohol.

She threw a job at him eventually. She claimed that if he did not go to work the very next day she would throw him out onto the street and watch him “cry like a baby” —— Raven believed that all his drinking and escaping from reality was no difference from children’s cries.

“ And sometimes he is quite easy-going, to be honest; Once I was reading Evolutionees, and he came by and asked what I was doing. I recommended him the newspaper and I see him reading it all the time —— well, not all the time, but very frequently.”

“ Hmm, when you told me about all the extra working time I thought you were complaining.”

After another thirty minutes of conversation they (just Charles and Hank) decide to end the dinner, because Raven is absolutely drunk. She clings to her boyfriend’s shoulder and wraps her arms around him, smiling childishly at Charles.

“ Hey, Professor X…… you know you don’t need to blame yourself for everything, you know that?”

She waves at him and closes her eyes. Soon her breaths become steady as she falls into deep, dark, dreamless slumber brought about by alcohol.

Charles leans forward and caresses her hair, giving her a kiss on the forehead. Hank braces Raven and shifts his shoulder so that she can sleep more comfortably.

Charles gets both of them a taxi and decides to walk home. There are not many people on the street. The slightly chilly autumn air drills into his coat and gives him goosebumps.

He looks up at the starless sky. The night is a heavy stone against his chest; its darkness unsettles him.

Professor X. That’s how she used to call him when they were younger. Raven was obsessed with Marvel comics at the time and insisted that everyone should have a codename. His was “Professor X”, and she named herself “Mystique”.

Charles smiles, without any bitterness this time, and continues his path along the well-lit shops and slender trees lining the street, his hands in his pockets.

His sister has always loved him. Even after he had almost caused permanent damage to her brain.

He still remembers the phone call from the hospital.

Is this Mr. Charles Xavier; Yes; Your parents just had a car accident and they have just…… expired. We are very sorry, Mr. Xavier, but there is nothing we can do.

“ Expired”. It took him several seconds to think the word over and finally resolve its meaning. No, it can’t be, there must have been a mistake; Sorry, Mr. Xavier, your parents, Brian and Sharon Xavier, have gone; It can’t be; When can you come and identify the bodies; Excuse me, but can you call me another time; Sure.

When Raven appeared at his door with her makeup smeared all over her face and her tears still trickling down her cheeks, Charles took her in his arms and quietly sobbed. They were two stars in the Milky Way, far away and isolated from others, only affected by each other’s gravity. They were glued together by grief.

It is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let them go on a ride alone in the new car.

She looked at him and said nothing, her light blue eyes glittering in tears. He considered her silence to be quiet reprimand. He was sinned, and his sister agreed with him.

The first two weeks after the funeral. He was immersed in terrible guilt and was far too emotional. His sadness was more complex than Raven’s. At nights he stirred awake, hearing his parents’ inner voices crying and scolding him. During the day he was slackened and lethargic due to insomnia.

Charles, you can’t stay like this anymore, you have to get out of it eventually; Why, Raven, it was my fault; No, Charles, it was not…….; I could hear that deep down you agree with me; Charles you don’t have to bear all of this, this is too f**king much; Raven, you don’t understand; This, this is cowardice, Charles, you’re a coward; No, I am simply taking on the truth; You don’t even want to get out of this mess; OF COURSE I DO.

The next second, Raven was covering her ears and shrieking, shuddering all over. Her blue scales sprouted up from her skin, her pupil contracting and turning golden, her blond hair shortening and bleeding.

He could not hear what she was shouting. Everything was in slow motion. His “curse” was sharpened into a dagger seized by an invisible hand, and he had to watch the blade sink into his sister’s skull and do nothing. It was out of his control. And he hated it. He hated his uselessness. He hated his “curse” more than ever. Raven’s lips shaped into a soundless scream.

When the storm appeased he took her to the hospital, driving at the speed limit. The doctor said if his power explosion went on any further, Raven could have been killed or gone into coma.

Charles wipes his cheeks to make sure there are no tears and takes out his keys from his pocket. The apartment is dark, dimly lit by neon lights from New York city, but the apartment itself is in another dimension, secluded from all the violent delights. Charles turns on the lights, draws down the blinders, and sinks into the soft armchair in front of his desk.

He takes out the folded pink letter from his trench-coat and flattens it on his desktop, his fingers tracing and caressing each wrinkle of the paper. He feels Greyish Red in his mind. She is a soft, golden red ball of fickling light. Charles stretches his arm forward in his imaginary world and tries to grab segments of sentences for his reply, yet all the phrases flit past him in an almost sarcastic manner, buzzing their evil rejoice.

Charles grunts and Greyish Red’s ball of light fades.

This is a moment when he could use Metallic Soul’s letter. Charles stands up and draws the wooden box from the shelf. Inside the box lie exactly twenty-eight letters; Charles, out of unknown reason, labels all of them with stickers. Right now he needs letter 14, in which Metallic Soul discusses his thought in mutants with Charles.

_ My Friend, _

_ My students are complaining about their workloads behind my back, and they could not hide it so well. I criticized them, of course, but I am also becoming increasingly aware of the grave status of mutants. My work is related to mutants’ future. My fellow researchers and students, who are all mutants, should be proud instead of weak.  _

_ Mutants are at their most critical moment in history. Even though most of us have chosen to live in peace with humans, the tendency of revealing and using our ability is decreasing among the new generation of mutants, which concerns me. If most mutants still choose to hide, we will only walk towards extinction. They need to walk out of the shadows and not to be afraid of what they can do. They need someone to guide them, someone like you and me, my friend.  _

_ My current research can help the world discover more mutants. I think if I succeed, more of our kind can learn that they are not the only ones who have such talents. We can offer them hope. We can teach them to say “mutant and proud”. They need to see themselves clear. And the project can help them. I can help them. _

_ Yours, _

_ Metallic Soul. _

Charles agrees with the letter partially. Yes, more mutants have to be found and yes, they must be taught properly. However, there is this implication of human hatred in the letter and Charles does not like it. He wants mutants to live in peace with man kind, so that lives can be saved. Although a literature student, Charles is no fan of violent revolutions.

Every time he reads letters from Metallic Soul he feels a part of him come alive, a part which nobody except Metallic Soul has awakened. He does not know why that is, but sometimes he knows the feeling perfectly well. 

Charles rests his chin on his fingertips and shuts his eyes. The fantasy world comes alive again, this time all the sentence fragments iridescent and chuckling. He reaches out a hand and they dash down towards him and land on his palm with fairy-like elegance.

He draws a pencil and a sheet of paper and starts to write.

_ Dear Greyish Red,  _

_ There is no need to be afraid. We are who we are, and we can choose to embrace it or to escape from it. By embracing it, we understand ourselves better. On the other hand, if you choose to flee, it does not necessarily mean that it would be bad for you. You may find, after a long, long period of time, that the best choice is to accept it, or, if you happen to be perfectly content with your life, to shirk it. It is all a matter of choice. I would not force you to embrace your talents, but I do encourage you to.  _

No, it’s a curse. You can’t drag her into the firepit.

I went out of control because of my parents’ death. She will never come across anything so traumatic in her life. My ability has brought me agony, but this does not mean that she will experience the same.

_ You can start using bits of your power, trying it on, exploring the good side of it. Perhaps then you would start to like it. You told me that you can move things, so why not start from controling the books in your backpack so that they do not feel too heavy upon your shoulders? _

_ Try to think of it as a gift. If you are not afraid of it, it would be meekly at your command. Say to yourself “I am not afraid of what I can do” as many times as you please everyday. Have faith in yourself, so that your power can have faith in you. _

_ Yours sincerely,  _

_ Miss Quietlistener. _


	3. Ms. Quietlistener meets someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is invited to the Cerebro project as a test subject. And they meet. But the encounter is not pleasant at all.

Charles did not expect the call from Hank on the following morning. He is reading Byron when his sister’s boyfriend calls. On the phone they briefly discuss their shared experience in taking care of Raven, and Hank tells Charles that the girl is now sound asleep. They chat a little bit longer and Hank speaks after hesitation.

“Charles, I need to ask you for a favor, if that’s appropriate.”

“I think your request will be appropriate, judging from my impression last night. What is this favor?”

He regrets his quick consent now. In front of him is the laboratory building of Columbia University, and he is hesitating whether to lay hands on those glass doors. Hank did tell him that Cerebro is for telepaths, but he also said this test does not require him to use his “curse”. The Cerebro helps telepaths magnify their brainwaves and alter the frequency of the waves so that they become more compatible with waves of others, as Hank has told him. The research group only needs to record Charles’ brainwaves before and while he is in the Cerebro and compare them.

Hank pushes open the door, a little clumsy due to fatigue, but delightful altogether. The young man walks towards Charles with a friendly, timid smile, and Charles knows there is no way for him to refuse Hank’s request. _For mutants_ , Charles thinks to himself bitterly.

Charles is led through the hallway, brushing past many white-robed, glasses-wearing scholars. The research building is bright inside under daylight, as sunshine cascades down through transparent glass panels effortlessly. They arrive at a grey door whose sign reads “The Cerebro Project. Head of Research: Erik Lehnsherr.”

When they enter the room Charles realizes how spacious the research facility is. The room has an almost blazing white hue; there are white PCs, white desks and chairs, white ceilings and walls. There is a white machine at the center of the room with a white hemisphere connected to black wires, which sprawl the floor and climb up to sockets on the computers, like tentacles of an octopus.

The white is the white of hospitals.

His wristwatch ticks. The white does not like him.

They are alone at the moment. Most fellow researchers do not come to work until 9:30 a.m, Hank explains, but Mr. Lehnsherr is often early. Hank has just seen the man and he presumes that Mr. Lehnsherr will be back at any moment.

“Can we start now?”

Charles is more or less anxious. He wishes to finish the business before any stranger intrudes. 

“I think we should start after Mr. Lehnsherr comes, Charles,” smiles Hank, “try to relax, we just need to record some readings and we’re finished.”

“Well, it’s my first time as a participant in a scientific experiment……”

“Is this the telepath?”

A deep, magnetic, mildly accented voice speaks behind them. Charles turns around to see a tall, gaunt man in his 30s with dark blond hair and greenish blue eyes. The contour of his face is firm and decisive, finely chiseled to exhibit strength and tension. Charles wonders how would the man look like when he smiles a genuine smile.

“Uh, yes, Professor Lehnsherr, this is Mr. Charles Xavier, the telepath I’ve told you about; Charles, this is Professor Erik Lehnsherr.” 

“Mr. Xavier.”

“Professor Lehnsherr.”

Their brief handshake is moist and in a haste. Charles senses a quiet flash of hospitality; it is emitted as light grey sparks in front of his eyes.

“If you are worried about your privacy, Professor Lehnsherr, I have sworn not to use my power again. I won’t use my ability to poke into your head.”

Erik’s pupils dilate for a second, and a furrow appears between his eyebrows.

“I have to confess that I am surprised, Mr. Xavier. Pardon me if I have made you feel uncomfortable…...”

Erik takes out a metallic helmet and puts it on. The silvery color glimmers cold in the white light of the room.

“This helmet prevents your ability from sensing any disturbance from me, so we will remain mutually unaffected during the experiment. Please do not be offended, this is for experimental accuracy, Mr. Xavier.”

So that your little secrets can be protected.

Charles takes a deep breath, experiencing a mild anger traveling in his blood stream. Out of courtesy, Charles replies:

“Of course not. Thank you, Professor Lehnsherr. That is very considerate.”

Erik grins. A fake one. Charles does not need his ability to tell the nit-bit of perplexed dislike. At least the man is trying to conceal it, so he is not, after all, such a giant dickhead.

There are now tiny electrodes on his temples, and Charles imagines spikes of electrical impulses burning into his brain, scorching his cortex, paralyzing him permanently. He shudders at the thought. Look at how truly deperate you have become, Charles Francis Xavier. Hank is still adjusting the equipments, tuning and gently knocking. Charles closes his eyes and he could hear three hearts beating in this terrifyingly silent space.

Erik hands Charles a touch-screen pad.

“I need you to look at some pictures, Mr. Xavier. Hank will record your responses in term of your electromagnetic brain waves. ”

The first few pictures depict warm-colored scenes of family union, school outings and birthday parties. Charles smiles at them, his pink lips forming a perfect curvature, his sapphire eyes gleaming, attentive on the screen. He remembers his salad days when alcohol and pretty girls and music offered him hearty delight. The brainwave recorder beeps calmly beside him as he reminisces.

His finger swipes.

And in front of his eyes is the gory scene of a car crash, the crimson color oozing out of the cracks of blood clots, faces sliced, insides pulled out, skulls shattered. 

The recorder beats at a higher rate, yet still with composure, as if it could not perceive how Charles’ hands are shaking nor how his eyes start to moisten as he thinks about his parents.

“…… What is this?”

His voice tremors. The pad is deadly like a loaded gun.

“This is the experiment, I’m afraid. Unexpected pictures disrupt brainwaves more phenomenally.”

Erik’s voice is obviously strained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik is a total dickhead in this chapter...... but he does that for a reason, and Charles will find out later.


	4. Ms. Quietlistener feels down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles refuses to further cooperate, and Erik has to let his test subject go. Charles goes back to his office and tells Emma about Erik, and Emma seems interested in this Columbia professor. Charles feels sad and weak because he realizes how fragile he still is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, sorry for the VERY LATE update! College application is REALLY tiring and I had several tests this week, so the chapter is not very long. Enjoy! Please give me ANY suggestions you have about this fanfic! :)

Charles is still panting. His heart shrinks and withers slightly in bitter disbelief. 

“So this is all so-called ‘experimental procedure’.”

His facial muscles twitches to form a smile.

“Yes, Mr. Xavier. I hope you can understand.”

“Charles, I am SO sorry, ” says Hank, uncomfortable and hasty, “I didn’t know Professor Lensherr would use that set of pictures to test you, I’m sorry.”

Charles’ blood is icing and boiling inside his veins. His vision starts to lose focus as indignation and guilt seeps into his consciousness, a combination of emotions so similar to that in the accident. It feels foreign inside him, swelling up and squeezing his organs, forcing his power to escape him and commit another crime.

The scholar’s slight hostility towards telepaths etches red-hot into Charles’ brain, leaving a sizzling, pathetic wound and a strange pain.

“It is for the future of mutants, Mr. Xavier. They have to be saved and they have to come out of the shadows, and people like you can help them.”

Erik is a little nervous, as his voice trembles a little. His thinning lips indicate that the man is, after all, apologetic to some extent. Yet the helmet shines cold and emotionless to Charles.

Charles takes a deep breath, and his rampaging rage starts to subside like the helpless tides. Recalling those soothing thoughts about the letters to Miss Quietlistener, about his Oscar Wilde, about the quiet countryside in Manchester where he grew up in, Charles finds his composure a minute later. 

Hank looks absolutely worried. Erik frowns.

“Professor Lensherr, I’m afraid I can’t cooperate. Please find another telepath to help you with your research, because I’m really having a hard time looking at that……” he gestures, “revolting scene.”

“…… The picture was meant to have an amplifying effect.

“I’m sorry, but that picture triggered some painful thoughts. I am still emotionally unstable, ” he manages a smile, “although you have the protection from the helmet, Hank does not.”

“I will make sure that Mr. McCoy receives sufficient protection next time.”

Charles grins as the tension in the air loosens. Although the man still refuses to apologize, Charles can hear the sincereness in his voice. His instinct about other people is often accurate, due to the “valuable” experiences inflicted by his ability.

“A pleasure talking to you, Professor. I wish we will not see each other again under similar circumstances.”

“Please wait, Mr. Xavier. I still believe you can help me with my research.”

Charles ignores Erik. He walks towards the metal door and twists the doorknob, yet the rotation is impossible; the knob is frozen and refuses to spin. Helplessly, he turns around and arches his eyebrows in an almost sarcastic manner.

“In what way? I have vowed not to use my ability anymore, and you can’t possibly force me into submission, Professor Lehnsherr. The damage was too severe.”

“Be my consultant, then.”

“In what?”

“In telepaths. In how to help them discover who they are.”

“I…… I don’t think so. I’m sorry, but the word ‘telepath’ itself is a sting.”

One benefit of that cold metallic helmet is that Charles does not have to endure Erik’s pangs of suspicion or vexation or, perhaps, subtle pain. He has the right to leave the building now, as Erik withdraws his control over the doorknob. Charles does not hesitate to open the door, leaving Hank’s anxiety and apology behind, heading towards the real sunshine instead of its refraction. 

If he is to say that there is not a bit of regret inside his mind, he would be lying. He does want to try on the power of the Cerebro; sadly, he cannot bring himself to that point due to Erik’s violent experimental methods. He has sworn not to use the “curse” again, that is for sure. All he needs is a little boost in his perception, as Hank has suggested as one of the machine’s theoretical effect on a telepath. His constant suppression of his abilities has resulted in a decline in his perception of things; the colors he sees are dimming into grayness, the melodies drifting into his ears when he passes the Carnegie Hall are losing their charisma as the differences between notes are gradually vanishing. The decline is not substantial for now, but a person as sensitive as Charles can clearly perceive this change. 

He has not told anyone about this. If it is possible, he wishes that Raven would never know.

To Charles, his characteristic acuteness is his source of inspiration, apart from the letters from Metallic Soul. And he is a writer. He cannot live without sparks of inspiration lighting his path. He would soon be dying.

And he cannot disobey his vow. 

He thinks of Metallic Soul’s words, “mutant and proud.” Yet there are certain moments when he is ashamed of who he is, when he wishes to cease to exist. He is happy to be the guiding figure for other mutants, but he can never offer guidance to himself. 

He needs something, or someone, to save him. 

When he goes back to his melancholic office he sees Emma Frost sitting in his armchair, reading the unfinished response to Greyish Red lying on the type-writer, in her white blazer and shirt and skirt. She darts him a look as he enters, and continues her struggle in distinguishing the letters crossed out by pencil marks. Charles stands there, uncomfortable and disconcerted, waiting patiently for Emma to break the silence.

Charles sometimes thinks that Emma and Raven are very similar. They are both strong, independent, beautiful, and can be insensible from time to time. The difference might be that Emma is more willing to utilize her beauty than Raven, and Charles, as a worried brother, is secretly glad that they share such a difference.

“Have you come up with a complete reply yet? I like this girl.”

She looks up at him. Her light gray eyes never fail to burn into him when she scrutinizes. Charles feels her telepathic ability briefly brushing the periphery of his mind and doges away from the contact.

“Yes, I have finished it at home. Here, if you want to read it.”

Emma takes over the paper and skims it through.

“Very touching, as always,” she evaluates after about one minute of reading. “I’ll put it to print today. By the way, I sensed a handsome man, and the helmet looks strangely sexy on him. Who is he? You know, I prefer to hear it from you, Charlie boy.”

Charles tries to argue “please don’t call me that”, but he gives up after considering the number of times he has mentioned that to her. Instead, he shrugs and replies, “he’s Erik Lehnsherr, a Columbia professor.”

“Ah, and since when are you interested in guys?”

“…… I am not interested in him, Emma. If you want to get to know him and if you don’t care about Shaw shouting at me and firing me, I can tell you how to reach him.”

Emma simpers, her white teeth glimmering like hard candies, “thank you very much, Charlie boy, and yes, I do not give a shit.”

Charles laughs. The bluntness of Emma is soothing to him at the moment, and he laughs even harder when Emma glowers at him. At the end there is a sprinkle of sadness intermingled into his laughter, and Emma appears to detect it.

“Hey, seriously, tell me about him.”

Whenever Emma Frost intends to comfort Charles she leans towards him. They obey a strict compact between each other not to poke into each other’s mind. Therefore, the female telepath cannot use her power to expel Charles’ sorrow, and she has to turn to words, a means she also excels in.

Charles takes in several sharp breaths and calms himself.

“Lehnsherr is doing a research and it involves telepaths. He wants to amplify, or at least change, telepathic powers. So you have your ticket to him now. Raven’s boyfriend is working for him.”

“That nerd?”

“…… If you insist, Miss Frost.”

“Okay. I’ll ask Raven about this Erik Lehnsherr. You sure you’re not interested in him?”

“I am certain about it. I cannot stand the way he conducts his experiment, which is…… traumatizing.”

“Well, then, I’m expecting a romantic dinner this weekend with Professor Lehnsherr……. Professor, the word sounds really kinky, have you noticed that?”

“No, Emma. No. Did you learn that from Raven?”

She chuckles and covers her mouth with her ruby-nailed hands. The enamel taints her nails with glossy blood. She stands up, still laughing, brushes past him and struts out of the door. They do not say goodbyes nor hellos. Her tinkling laughter ceases not far away.

Charles wonders if he and Emma are truly friends sometimes. It is true that they share information via Raven and via the Evolutionees, but there are boundaries that both of them refuse to step upon. They respect each other, and, eventually, it turns out that they know not very much about each other, partially because neither of them is willing to give that information. Emma does not know the specific details about the accident, and Charles does not know which university Emma went to. Their relationship resembles a friendship, but lacks sufficient amount of common information, and is, therefore, less complete than a friendship. They remain barely acquaintances.

He sits down and pulls himself closer to the desk, reaching into the cardboard box on the other side of the desk which contains fresh letters for Miss Quietlistener. The picture he was forced to look at haunts back at him now, and he shudders in the dead silence in his little confinement.

He cannot blame Erik too much on this matter. The man is only researching, and perhaps there IS some scientific proof that making the test subject look at a series of warm scenes and then directing him to a stunning, disgusting picture would produce maximum stimulus on him. It is all about himself. He is still too weak. The scab is still forming.

The problem is, whenever he cannot find the strength in himself he loses his access to the character Miss Quietlistener. He needs to maintain confident, if not energetic, in order to fit himself into the beloved figure for over one million mutant readers. His words are failing him, and he senses it even before he starts constructing sentences. Today is destined to be inefficient.

A movie.

The thought comes to him and he tries to wave it away, yet it looms more and more tempting. 

His telepathic abilities used to make every bit of emotion of characters in movies crystal clear and within reach for him, and now, even though his perception is decreasing in astuteness, he is still surprisingly empathetic.

Just a movie, a heart-racing, blood-boiling, mind-cheering movie.

And everything will come back to him. Every tiny fragment of the key into the mental gate.


	5. Ms. Quietlistener strolls with Mr. Magneto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles meets Erik at the DVD rental, and the two take a stroll together. They talk about a lot of things. And Charles now knows that Erik is lonely, too.

Charles likes old DVD stores / rentals almost as much as how he likes old book stores. Luckily, there are one of such bookstores and one of such DVD rentals adjacent to each other on Maple Avenue, so Charles’ joy is often doubled. Both of them are reminiscent places, filled with fragments of old times, the yellowing books and roughening DVDs imbuing the gaps in human memories with aged stories. The customers in these places are often content and calm; as a result, Charles does not have to endure headaches. Their thoughts chorus at the back of his mind, a comforting, humming tune. Here, he is allowed to forget. Here, he can be the literature geek confined in his own world, which is similar to his apartment as well as that small office. He never leaves an old DVD rental or an old book store without any additional weight in his satchel.

With that satchel on his back, he looks like a college freshman. His glistening, boyish blue eyes are somehow deceptive in telling his age. His skin is too tender, his lips too red for a 27-year-old. And after his little trips in bookstores and DVD rentals, there is always a flare in his eyes that take people’s breaths away. Only after Charles realizes he is in the real world would the light fade, receding into a dim fantasy.

But this time, he lingers helplessly in front of rows after rows of DVDs on the shelf. He does not know what dose of excitation would be the right amount. Meanwhile, his heart is sinking further in increasing frustration towards selecting the perfect film for the night.

He is so absorbed into his tangled thoughts that he fails to sense the approaching inner voice.

“If you’re looking for something to cheer yourself up, I recommend Double-Oh-Seven.”

Charles detects the amusement in the voice and turns to face the speaker. Unfortunately, Charles has to look up at him.

“Professor Lehnsherr.”

The warm light in the DVD store softens the contour of Erik’s face. Charles has to admit that Erik has a handsome countenance and that he secretly adores those pale green eyes shielding oceans of sorrow. Of course there are something more in Erik’s eyes. There are ambition, decisiveness, and Charles knows, deep down, there are spikes of hatred waiting to be melted by a torrent of warm love. The love would not be from Charles, no. No. Miss Quietlistener gives love. Not Charles Xavier. He has nothing more to give.

“No, it’s not. I’ve seen worse.”

Erik takes a DVD case from the shelf and hands it to Charles. It is the first time Charles see Erik smiling a genuine smile. Erik’s lips strain into a perfect curvature.

“Mr. Xavier.”

“What a surprise. I didn’t expect you to have any interest in DVD rentals.”

“A good way to remember about the past.”

“Too sensitive a comment for someone like you.”

“What are your labels for me?”

Erik appears interested.

Charles hesitates. He bites his lower lip, an unconscious yet seductive habit.

“Scholar. A little aloof. Your ambition for the so-called ‘greater good’ for mutants is above everything. And a workaholic, based on what Hank has told me.”

“Well, I suppose the impression is not too bad.”

It is the first time Charles sees Erik smile. His thin lips strain into a perfect curvature, revealing his white, compact teeth, his iris changing color under the tender beams of light, from pale emerald into almost hazel. 

“I don’t know if I would like 007.”

Charles chuckles after darting at the masculine figure of Daniel Craig in his black suit standing in front of the black-and-white background, “but I am sure 007 is not meant to be entertaining.”

“You may find it unbelievably enjoyable by appreciating the power and the strength embodied in the movie.”

“Sorry, Erik, I’m not obsessed with those things.”

It takes Charles a second or two to realize what he just uttered. Erik’s name. That was an accident, unintentional, yet it was natural. It sounds strangely right to pronounce the word, the two syllables designed for Charles’ Oxford accent.

“…… What did you just call me?”

Charles remains calm.

“I called you Erik, Professor Lehnsherr.”

“I would not mind you calling me that, if I am allowed to call you Charles.”

Charles Charles licks his lips and nods with a faint smile.

The mid-autumn wind is crisp against Charles’ cheek when they step out of the DVD rental, and he grasps his wool muffler closer to his neck. Erik, completely lack of any protection from the chilling air, stands beside him without even shivering the slightest bit. Charles did not rent the 007 film eventually; instead, he chose _Amelie_ (“A sensitive decision, Charles.” “Oh, shut up, Erik.”). The cumbersome clock at a square near by strikes nine.

“Do you want some coffee? My treat.”

“No, thank you, Erik. Caffeine makes me overly excited and my power may escape my control.” 

“I have always wanted to ask. Why are you afraid of your power?”

They are walking along the street now. The rustling leaves and the rustling crowd contrast the short, deadly silence between them. Charles looks down at his automatically moving feet, at his sleek leather shoes.

“I hurt my sister. It was an accident, and I was…… unstable.”

“Power eruptions are inevitable, you know. You need to embrace it, Charles.”

Erik’s surge of sympathy pinches Charles. He docks away from Erik’s inner voice muttering “I used to be just like you.” The last thing he wants from Erik is his sympathy. Sympathy is condescending, because it is bestowed from one to another, like a cheap, tattered gift.

Knowing the answer already, Charles asks, “have you experienced such eruptions before?”

Erik glances at him, then looks up at the starless sky.

“I was thirteen. My father left when I was young, and other children kept mocking me about it. One day I ran out of control and tore down half of the stadium. Nobody was inside, lucky them. I was the only mutant in the school, and mockery from human children always loomed behind me like a shadow. They were afraid of me, I knew it. Pathetic.”

“Is that why you want to save mutants in your own way?”

The determination emitting from Erik answers the query for him.

“If mutants choose to hide no longer, there will be less and less discrimination. There will be schools designed specifically for mutant children, so that fewer of them will have gloomy childhoods. I think it is fair to trade one miserable experience with another.”

“…… I am sorry about earlier today. I did not mean to run a tantrum. My parents passed away in a car accident, so I am always sensitive towards such scenes. It was my fault. I did not stop them from going out for a ride alone.”

“I apologize for my rudeness in conducting the experiment. I should have learned more about you before starting on the research. It should be a hard requirement of experiments of this kind, knowing about the test subject, including his or her experiences, in order to plan the most suitable experimental procedure.”

The concession in Erik’s voice is genuine, and, even though Erik’s diction is academic, Charles knows the man means something personal. The “experimental procedure” is merely a pretext, observes Charles. Erik is sorry because he has hurt Charles’ feelings, not because he has hurt the feelings of a test subject.

“No, it’s okay. You were just researching.”

They stroll a little while longer in cozy silence. The longer the time people have been imprisoned in their solitude, the more they learn to enjoy the silence.

“I’ve told one of my colleagues about your research. I believe there will be a Miss Emma Frost volunteering for your research soon. She is a beautiful woman and a powerful telepath. You can hire her as your consultant instead, Erik.”

“But I am certain that you are more suitable for the job.”

“And why is that? What did you see in me?”

“An ability to kindle hope.”

For a second Charles is afraid that Erik knows who he really is. Then he realizes there is no way Erik would find out about who Miss Quietlistener is: first of all, he does not seem like someone who would read Charles’ column; second of all, if Erik has known, he cannot be possibly talking to Charles. A male using a feminine alias, writing chicken soup for the soul. Erik's impression of Miss Quietlistener, it must be. The worst type of friends for Erik. So the statement "an ability to kindle hope" becomes confusing.

“I’m sorry, Erik, but I’m not as good as I appear to be.”

There is something I can never forgive myself for.

“…… There is no reason to confine yourself, Charles. Everyone makes mistakes like this, and I can even say that sacrifice of things or even people is necessary to accomplish feats. Take it in. Don’t turn away from it. Succumb to it, if you must. But never be afraid of it.”

Erik sounds like Miss Quietlistener. Now Charles doubts his previous hypothesis that a masculine man like Erik would never take notice in chicken soup for the soul.

“You sound like a friend of mine. She tries convincing me of that, too. She does the same for many mutants out there.”

“She must be a great woman.”

“I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, you can never tell. She may just appear to be optimistic, but in the recesses of her mind there is something missing. Her world may be shattered, and she is just pretending everything is fine. She refuses to tell me more about her life. So I remain silent and confused.”

Charles once read an article saying that writers project themselves into their characters. Normal people do that too, not in their books, but in their speeches, which are also literary creations. Unconsciously, they embellish their tales with their nit-bits of pitiful thoughts, and stand on a spectator’s perspective, evaluating those bits of misery with eyes of stones.

“Hiding and escaping cannot solve the problem. Turn guilt or fear into something else, into fueling hatred or into scorching passion, but never into sorrow. Sorrow is useless. Worries are pale. They won’t help the current situation.”

“But I believe love and forgiveness is always greater than hatred.”

Although I’m afraid I cannot love again. Therefore, there will never be salvation for me, as there are no better alternatives than sorrow.

Soon they are standing in front of Charles’ apartment building. Charles watches their breaths tangling into each other as white, foggy puffs. And he smiles at Erik.

“It was nice talking to you, my friend, but I’m afraid this is enough for today. We both have work tomorrow. But do allow me to buy you lunch or dinner some time, just to show my apology about the experiment thing. Maybe I will help you after you have improved your methods.”

“A pleasure. Can I have your phone number, then?”

“Sure.”

Charles takes out a pen and writes onto Erik’s palm, in a romance movie kind of way. Erik’s palm is dry and warm, like a piece of wood in a fireplace.

He turns into a pathetic heroine when he looks down from his dimly-lit apartment and sees Erik standing at the exact location where they parted, his hands in his jacket pocket, his eyes gazing upon Charles’ square windows.

They exchange a courteous and succinct nod.

Charles leans against the window pane and watches Erik walk away, watching that gaunt figure disappearing after a crossroad.

He chuckles and pulls down the blinder, covering his face with a hand.

 

No. Never.


	6. Ms. Quietlistener Experiences Unnatural Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles receives a letter from Metallic Soul that tells Charles about the attraction Metallic Soul experiences towards a telepath. As a result, Charles feels slightly frustrated, envious and confused about the reason why he has such feelings. Erik texts Charles to say that Emma has come to volunteer for the research. Charles reads a letter from Rogue and decides to help the girl, not just limited to writing her letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, SORRY for the LATE Update!!  
> I just got rejected by my dream school so I feel pretty down :(  
> But still, hope you would enjoy my fanfic! I welcome any comments and questions!!

“He CAN’T hurt you like that and just WALK AWAY, Charles! Why didn’t you use your powers? He needs to pay back, Charles, I’m getting his phone number from Hank RIGHT NOW. How can you let him do that? If I were you, I would make him think that he’s a male stripper and send him down a night club!”

“Raven, please, you’re overreacting again. I’m fine. He has apologized and I think he’s worth forgiving.”

Charles smiles at his sister’s indignation over the phone. Raven, Raven. She is expressing her concerns in her own way. 

Raven savors this piece of information over and sighs.

“I can’t believe this. And, worst of all, Hank didn’t even plan to tell me any of this at the beginning. And you, Charles, if I didn’t ask about it, would you hide this disaster from me forever? ”

“Raven, I just thought there was no need to tell you……”

“NO NEED to tell me?”

“Uh, I’m sorry Raven but I need to go now. I’m going into the elevator.”

Raven hangs up after a quick “this is not over yet”. Charles is almost amused and steps into the packed elevator, where he remains squeezed between morning coffees and leather bags and warm bodies for seven floors. 

His sister can get overly protective sometimes if this is the correct terminology. After their parents funeral his sister did grow up, but that does not mean her ways are changed. She is still that outspoken, unorthodox little girl to Charles, requiring protection and shelter. It is sometimes hard for Charles to perceive that she is already twenty-five because she is so different from him, so much more vibrant, so much happier. Three more years of life will age him faster than it would her; she will handle being twenty-eight better than he does.

He is sipping his afternoon tea when he receives another letter from Metallic Soul. Charles does not even have to look inside the envelope to recognize who it is because the address and the handwriting are all too familiar. 

_My Friend,_

_I believe I have met an amazing telepath. He challenged my beliefs, yet I was not very displeased. I think this is…… very abnormal, Miss Quietlistener. To some extent, he is very much like you._

Charles frowns over the letter. This experience sounds familiar. He actively compares Charles Xavier with Miss Quietlistener, and is relieved when he finds no obvious similarities or at least none from his perspective.

_Perhaps I was attracted to him. I have not had such feelings for a long time. I know I may sound peculiar or extremely childish, but I am telling you the truth about my thoughts and feelings. You are an important friend, and I can’t possibly tell anyone else about this…… attraction._

This is a surprise, indeed. Of course, Charles would not mind. He himself is drawn towards Metallic Soul, so he assumes the attraction between two males, whether mutual, is perfectly natural. The faithful reader’s claim that Miss Quietlistener is an important friend warms Charles up, yet, still, he experiences a bitter twist in his guts. Had the Destiny been a bit more fond of him, it would have been Charles instead of that unknown male telepath who met Metallic Soul. And things will be different from how they are right now. 

_The affection feels bizarre and I am ashamed of myself._

Oh. Fine. Anxiety unsettles Charles’ mind and he stops reading the letter, sliding the folded-up piece of paper back to its brown envelope. He will pick another time to continue; if Metallic Soul does have anything more important to tell him, he would write to Charles soon —— or, after finding this perfect resemblance of Miss Quietlistener, he may not write any more at all. Perhaps, before another notable incidence worthwhile to tell Miss Quietlistener, that telepath would crawl into Metallic Soul’s bed. 

Charles is cynical about this. Out of jealousy, he assumes. Never had he noticed his feeling towards Metallic Soul can result in some emotion so deviated from his regular peaceful, bitter, habitual sorrow. 

So this letter could wait since Charles has grasped its gist: attraction towards a telepath and reluctance to embrace this homosexual affection. 

Putting the letter away does not terminate his thoughts. Charles could not help but start wondering what that telepath is like. Metallic Soul describes him as someone similar to Miss Quietlistener, so this person must be compassionate, friendly and willing to listen. He can tolerate some minuscule flaws of the man, and repay the affection with even more tender love. Charles is envious. He believes he has lost the ability to love so softly, so compassionately, so considerately. He feels like his love has been used up for Miss Quietlistener’s readers; there is a quota for the amount of warmth one possesses in his or her life, and Charles believes he has offered it all to his readers.

His cell phone buzzes. It is a text message from Erik: _The Ms. Emma Frost you mentioned is here right now. You are right, she is indeed beautiful._

Charles chuckles, shaking his head, not expecting his acquaintance to be so “eager”. The small laugh does not lighten up his mood much. The foggy jealousy still veils his usual tranquilness. Nonetheless, Miss Quietlistener is kind and helpful no matter how Charles Xavier feels, and, for once, Charles decides to pretend. Skimming through possible responses for a minute or two, he replies with a feigned happiness: _Unfortunately, Erik, Ms. Frost has a possessive lover, who happens to be my boss._

He is reading a monolog from a scribbled letter when his phone rings again.

_My evaluation was completely objective. I have no intention becoming her “lover”, if this is your concern._

Charles arches an eyebrow. Erik’s reply is a vibrant spark in the mist, brightening up his insides somehow. Again, he is confused with the reason why he is experiencing relief at the moment. Is he attracted again? But, how? He cannot be in love with two people at the same time, although Metallic Soul and Erik Lehnsherr…… are actually pretty similar when Charles strips both of them to the core. Metallic Soul he knows too well, Erik he is not yet so familiar with, but during their stroll together Charles read fragments of Erik’s mind. And Charles knows that Erik, too, is lonely and a bit sad and, sometimes, uncertain of himself. 

_I was not “concern”ed at all, Erik. I was reminding you of some facts._

After some hesitation, Charles adds, “ _and your lover is none of my concern, either, my friend._ ”

That addition sounds strange and can be easily mistaken for something else, but it is too late because he has already pressed “send”. 

Charles quickly puts the phone aside and tries to focus on the letter in his hand. The unfolded letter introduces to Charles a disobedient, tough girl who has to wear gloves all the time to prevent herself from hurting others, and he has to read each sentence twice to ensure the words sink into him instead of staying afloat in his chaotic mind. The girl takes physical strength and super powers from others when she touches them, and her boyfriend is still in the hospital, slowly and painfully recovering. Some characters are obscured by blobs of water, perhaps tears. The signature is “Rogue”.

Of course you are afraid of yourself, little girl. I understand.

However, this time the story is different. Rogue’s ability is one that inevitably hurt other individuals. Charles knows to control is the best way out of her agony, yet controlling always involves failed experiments, and, in Rogue’s case, there may be more humans and mutants hurt. He cannot tell her to suppress it, either. If he does that, he is no different from the humans who discriminate mutants —— those people force mutants to hide their powers by insults and mockery. She needs to be taken in and taken good care of. Only under a safe, comforting environment would she be able to calm down and start to control her ability with less anxiety and more confidence. Such an environment is the most efficient for Rogue to contain her power inside better.

Charles feels lost again. He is desperate to help Rogue because he sees himself. She is already traumatized, and Charles remembers his rotten days sitting between wine bottles, dazing himself with strong booze. She must not undergo the same experience. It seems that her parents and friends know nothing about her ability. She must have someone to talk to, someone to soothe her; and she picked him. Yes, he will talk to her, but he will also pull her out of her mess. How could he find the best environment for the girl?

Erik’s text message arrives.

_I will be experimenting on her soon. I hope this time things go on well._

Charles bites his lower lip. Erik has Columbia’s resources at his hand, and Columbia’s mutant research is one of the tops in the world, and his research institute must have experts in mutants…...

_My friend, is it possible for you to establish a place for a mutant girl to help her control her mutant ability? She removes physical strength and mutant powers from others, not permanent, but her power is indeed dangerous. I wish to help her out._

Charles waits patiently while he constructs the response to Rogue. He has determined to write the “usual” response for _The Evolutionees_ to publish, but he will go to Rogue to guide her.

In the response for the newspaper he will write about controlling, about believing in oneself, about love and faith. Secretly, he will visit Rogue’s home on his own, since he has got the address. _Evolutionees_ does not like him to get into contact with his readers due to the contrast between his actual gender and the feminine figure he represents on the paper. The readers would consider this as a fraud.

After an hour or so Erik sends him another message.

_Yes, I can. Bring her to my lab. I have never seen such ability before. Who is she, exactly?_

Charles smiles, this time genuine and warm. He would need some time to find where Rogue is, probably using his “curse”, but it won’t take too long.

_A friend. That’s all you need to know, Erik. Just being discreet._


	7. Ms. Quietlistener Gives Rogue A Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles finds Rogue as an insecure but strong young girl and brings her to Erik. Erik wants Rogue to show him her powers. Charles volunteers to be the "victim" of Rogue's ability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS! HAPPY NEW YEAR!  
> Take this chapter as a Christmas gift LOL.  
> Hope you will enjoy it :)

Charles looks at the tattered houses that line the grimy, grim street. The wind feels chilly and vicious against his cheeks. He hears inner growls of angry husbands and malicious shouts of young adults listening to the blasts of rock from their headphones. The atmosphere in the neighborhood to be thick, oozing black. People are afraid and angry.

He imagines what it is like for Rogue to live in such a neighborhood while recovering from the trauma of almost killing her boyfriend. How perplexed must she be, and there is no one to turn to. They are too busy with their own emotions so that there is no room to care for others’ feelings.

Although he has promised himself not to use his curse again, Charles has decided to violate his vow just for once. This is for helping Rogue.

_You are doing this to help._

Charles shuts his eyes, concentrating on distinguishing different inner voices. He should be looking for a young girl in extreme anxiety. He sieves through the rampaging men and crying babies, patient and tentative, keeping his rummage low-profile so that he does not startle any of them. And, eventually, after about ten minutes, he has narrowed the buzzes in his mind down to one terrified yet steady voice.

_I must not touch anyone. I must not hurt anyone again._

She is stronger than he used to be. Charles knows it at the very glimpse into her mind. With some twinges of guilt he delves into her mind a little deeper, passing the pallid face of a boy, the feeble, painful moans and the slowing heartbeats. Charles sees a dark-brown-headed girl around 15 with a simmering lock of white hair, her chocolate eyes glimmering with tears.

_Hi, Rogue._

Charles projects his voice tentatively into the girl’s mind.

She is, nonetheless, startled.

_Who are you??_

The voice quivers with suspicion and resistance.

_I am Miss Quietlistener._

Her mind bursts into a throng of chaotic whispers that pricks Charles. She mumbles at last.

_You? But you’re supposed to be a female. Prove to me that you are her. And what are you doing here?_

_I have your letter here with me. Miss Quietlistener, I am f**king lost right now. My boyfriend is still in the hospital and I have not an idea about what to do but to escape from all this but my senses are pressing me down. I hate myself and whatever I could do……._

_OKAY. ENOUGH._

Charles falls silent again.

…… _What do you want from me? Blackmail?_

_I want to help you. I can help you control your power, or at least I know someone who can._

_Why me?_

_Because I used to be just like you. Sorry, but this is going to hurt a little._

And Charles shows the girl how he felt when he saw Raven shivering on the floor, how the silent screams overwhelmed him, how guilt and sadness stab him each and every time he thinks back at the accident.

The girl is quiet.

_I have hurt my loved ones, too, Rogue. And I want to help you because I want it to hurt less._

Charles says. His temple stings due to the lack of exercise in using his powers. The projection is attenuating, he can feel it. Using his telepathic ability is the same as lifting weights at the gym. Once he stops intentionally listening to people’s thoughts and controlling them, the ability degenerates quickly, just like the shrinking muscles when one stops working out.

_It’s not Rogue. My name is Ann Marie._

_Ann. I am Charles. It’s nice to meet you, although we have not officially met. Would you mind coming out? I am standing in front of your house._

A girl emerges near the window on the second floor, her strand of white hair dangling, her chocolate eyes searching for Charles. And their eyes meet. Charles gives her a nod.

He has not waited for long before the door opens. Ann Marie strides towards him, still suspicious, yet a glimmer of hope illuminates her face. Charles grins at her.

“How would you help me?”

“I know someone at Columbia’s mutant research institute. He can find you a place to practice how to harness your power, so that you can manipulate it better. So that you will not hurt anyone else.”

The girl blinks hard and tremors a smile, reaching out a hand. Her leather glove rustles against Charles’ palm.

“Thank you, Miss Quietlistener.”

“I’ll take you to Columbia. But promise me that you will not ‘Miss Quietlistener’ me there. The person I am taking you does not know it yet.”

 

Erik is already there when Charles and Ann arrives at Columbia. The taller man stands underneath the sun, his auburn hair sleek, his shadow stretching long behind him. It seems like Erik can banish any darkness, for he looks so promising, so powerful. Charles is delighted and surprised that Erik is no longer wearing that metallic helmet; that means his defense is lowered. That means Charles is trusted.

When Erik sees the leather-gloved girl his eyes narrow in interest.

“Erik, this is Ann Marie."

“Pleasure. I am Erik Lehnsherr. We’ll talk inside.”

Succinct and brisk, typical Erik Lehnsherr style.

This time they are led into Erik’s office instead of the overly bright experiment room. Erik gestures the two of them to sit down and tells Ann to take off her glove. Her eyes widen.

“But, Mr. Lehnsherr…...”

“Show me what you can do.”

Says Erik, rolling up his sleeve and extending his bare arm to Ann Marie.

“No, Erik, don’t.”

Charles takes Erik by the wrist and tries to convince him. He looks into Erik’s golden green eyes and coaxes, “I think I am the only one here that needs Ann’s power. Let her do it on me.”

“...... Why, Charles?”

“Because I still regret what I have done. Because I don’t want my power.”

“How come? All mutants should find their powers desirable. It is a gift, Charles, a gift! You should be proud, mutant and proud.”

The phrase “mutant and proud” rings a bell, but Charles decides to put this away for now.

“No, Erik, now it’s not time to argue about whether it is morally correct for me to abominate my telepathy. Ann needs _your_ help more than she needs mine, and you _Have to_ help her control her power. So you must be intact. Think about it, Erik. Let Ann do it on me, rather than you. Please.”

The determination flaming in Erik’s eyes diminishes, and Charles is sorry to see the spark fade.

“Fine.” Erik finally sighs. Charles replies with a satisfied grin, and, with some remnants of humor he turns to the confused girl.

“Just don’t kill me, Ann.”

“...... I will do my best, Mis……Mister Xavier.”

Ann takes a deep breath, removes her black gloves and puts them onto the table. She stands up, and Charles does the same.

And she touches Charles’ hand.

It is indeed torturing, but it is not that unbearable. His strength storms out of him, his vision fading into darkness, his consciousness abandoning him. But there is no pain, no pain at all. The cruelest aspect is the helplessness, the fear of his own fragility in front of her power. The mental torment is what drills into Charles. 

His knees slump to the floor as he lets out a quiet moan. His eyelids grow heavy. The murmurs from other people’s mind, which used to be so dominating and overwhelming, are strangled as his body inches closer to the ground.

The curse is wearing out.

He does not know if he is smiling, but if he could he would smile the brightest smile he ever managed since the accident one year, six months and 15 days ago.

Finally, he is free of the burden of telepathy……

 

Charles does not wake up at the hospital, as nothing smells like detergents. He strains his eyes to make clear of the figure sitting next to his bed, and recognizes it is a reading —— no longer reading when he sees Charles awake —— Erik Lehnsherr. Charles groans a little when Erik springs up from his chair and takes up a cup of water from the end-table and realizes his voice is husky.

“Have some water, Charles. I am afraid you are now a bit dehydrated.”

Sipping from the cup carefully placed against his lips, Charles feels like a sick six-year-old. After several mouthfuls he whispers, blushing, “thanks, Erik, but, uh, I think I can drink myself.”

“...... Of course, Charles.”

Erik hands him the cup, watches Charles finish the water, and takes the cup and puts it on the table, as if Charles is a piece of fragile china —— and, for God’s sake, Charles hates it.

“I am fine, Erik, really. Where is Ann Marie?”

“She is with Angel now. They are researching on the effect of her ability on test animals so that we can come up with a strategy for controlling her power. I believe there will be progress soon.”

There is a deep furrow between Erik’s brows, his thin, sexy lips tightening as he avoids Charles’ glances. Charles does not need his telepathy to see that Erik is apologetic. It seems that Erik is blaming himself for Charles’ current conditions again, while he should not be.

“I volunteered. It is not your fault. And I feel lighter as the weight on my mind dissipates. I just need some rest.”

“Yes, certainly. I will call _Evolutionees_ to inform them about this.”

“...... You Know that I work there?”

“Ah, yes. Mr. McCoy has told me about your job at _Evolutionees_.”

Charles holds his breath. Please, no.

Tentatively, he inquires again, “and did he tell you anything specific?”

“He said that you work there, and that is all, Charles. Rest now, I will make a phone call.”

“No!...... No, I mean, no need to bother. I will call.”

Slackening back into his pillow, Charles strains a nervous grin. At least Erik knows nothing specific yet. He must ensures that none of the possible correspondences would leak his secret identity to Erik, for he cannot bear to imagine what this spill would drive their relation…… friendship into. Despise? Disgust? Difference, that is for sure

He does not want to lose Erik.

“Fine, Charles. I will leave you now.”

Erik stands up and strides out of the door, while Charles reaches for his phone. There is much to “warn” Emma and Hank about.


	8. Miss Quietlistener sends his invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles, Erik and Ann Marie eat dinner together. Charles makes a proposal of letting Ann stay at his place. Turns out Erik is also interested in Charles' apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM BACK AND I AM TERRIBLY SORRY!
> 
> Special Shoutout to @Garnett1967 for not forgetting about this story and keep coming back!!!
> 
> Thank you so, so much for leaving the comments, those comments really brought me back. I am sorry I thought about abandoning this story, but I will not be doing that ever again.
> 
> You may notice some difference in the way I write. Please don't hate me for that. I spent one year doing a Computer Science degree and that changes people.
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter!!

It feels strange yet delightful, with all the voices in his ears subdued, all the monstrous scrawls over his mind wiped clean. There is a blunt buzz in the back of his head, but Charles decides that it must be his brain adjusting to his now “normal” body.

Emma chuckles when she hears Charles’ request.

“I bet your Professor Lensherr will not mind if he finds out about you. It may even add some flare to your relationship later. But it is your call.”

“We are not going into a relationship, Emma.”

“Oh, come on, Charlie, don’t be like the silly girls in romcoms.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “He has more important things to worry about.” Such as helping Rogue control her abilities. Such as perfecting the Cerebro so that more mutants no longer have to be alone. Such as fighting for the mutants, although Charles still does not approve of that.

Hank apologizes for about fifteen times throughout their conversation. Charles requests him not to inform Erik Lehnsherr about Miss Quietlistener, and Hank desperately promises Charles that on his life.

  
Charles can tell why Erik is a good cook. Certain culinary skills take precision and confidence. Erik’s lab coat and his slicked back hair scream precision right into people's faces, and his posture reeks confidence, almost arrogance. Yet when Charles bites into the succulent ribs he is still surprised by the savory juice oozing out.

Rogue has been devouring Erik’s cooking for five minutes straight without saying anything, apart from grinning to herself from time to time. Her chocolate eyes are glistening like caramel, softening as she enjoys the meal as well as her telepathy. That is good. That is better than what happened with Charles.

Erik is gazing at him.

“They are delicious, Erik, thank you.” Charles compliments after swallowing the tender meat and wiping his now-greasy lips with some napkins.

The chef replies with a succinct nod and perchance the tiniest bit of perceivable relief. The corners of his eyes wrinkle a little, like textured cracks on a piece of granite. Charles would love to know what Erik has on his mind right now, but he currently enjoys the freedom of guessing. If he does not know, he will not be disappointed.

“I’m done.” Claims Ann, putting down her fork, satiated. “Do I just stay here? I don’t really like the hospital beds.”

Charles smiles, “you can stay with me if you want. I have an air mattress. But before that, we would need to tell your parents about you staying with us?”

“They don’t really care about me so I have that taken care of. I’ll call them and say I may be out for a week, maybe even a month or so.”

Perfunctory parents often sicken Charles. In his opinion, certain individuals should never be allowed to become parents, because all they could give to the child will be abuse and nonchalance. The sprout can be killed by the meager soil and the battering. Sometimes they let the venom on their wound actually sink in, and eventually become a poisonous existence themselves.

Ann Marie pauses for a second and her eyes widen.

“Mister Lehnsherr here wants to visit your house.”

Explosion. Charles’ gaze meets Erik’s, and for the first time since Rogue’s touch Charles sees Erik’s emotion glowing, a calm and restraining shade of white mixed with bright, happy yellow. A tinge of red fury and embarrassment, maybe, but it is soon engulfed by the fluid marble.

The light reflected in Erik’s irises flickers. And then he attempts to mask the change.

Charles shifts his eyes away from the handsome professor across the table. Silence grips him by the throat.

“I am actually rather interested in where you live, Charles. I would like to pay a visit some time, if I may?” inquires Erik eventually. Ann Marie emanates relief, and perhaps excitement.

Oh, my friend, of course you may.

Charles tries to focus on how the light illuminates the textured meat instead the two dark green pools of crystalline. He chuckles then gathers his courage, his cheeks almost bright red.

“If you want to, it is a pleasure, my friend.”

The way Erik smiles can be rather disturbing; if he opens up his mouth a bit more he can bear potential resemblance to a shark.

  
It is rather late when they arrive at Charles’ apartment on Figs Street. The inside of Erik’s silvery car was surprisingly comfortable and warm, and both Charles and Ann Marie were a little reluctant to leave the soft black leather and clash into the frosty blasts of October.

The languid light from the corridor sweeps away fragments of darkness as Charles turns the key, forming a long stripe of pale yellow on the floor, climbing onto Charles’ coffee table, then disappearing behind the couch, dragging the shadows of the three along with it. A plain click of the switch washes out all the colorful neons tainting the apartment earlier and reveals the quiet, solitary corner occupied by Charles Xavier.

“This is a lovely place, Charles,” comments Erik, his gaze carefully shifting between pieces of furniture.

Just as Charles replies him with a brief smile and a genuine “thank you”, Ann Marie goes ahead and crawls into the dark maroon couch, her head leaning against the arm.

“I can go grab you the air mattress, Ann. Make yourself at home. You too, Erik.”

Charles averts his eyes and breaks free from Erik’s quiet tenderness. Behind him he can hear Erik walking around his small apartment, the thuds of his black boots on Charles’ oak wood floor. It is soothing, and Charles would not mind having that sound in his life…

Charles Xavier, you are off your track again.

He takes the air mattress and the matching pump out of the closet in his bedroom. Looking at his clothing collection, he realizes that he has not been purchasing new garments for quite a while. There is a flannel fading color, and an open seam on a pair of jeans. His old self had a simple yet fashionable taste. That lavender shirt does make his sapphire eyes pop.

When he returns Erik is strolling towards his desk, the one with Greyish Red’s letter still unfolded on the top, along with his pencil-scribbled replies to letters.

“Ann, I’ve brought you the mattress.”

He must sound ridiculous right now. His voice may be a few notes higher than normal, because Erik is stepping onto his heart, straining him harder and harder as he approaches the desk.

But Erik turns to look at Charles, and that is all he needs right now.

Rogue raises her head. And a quiet voice rings inside his mind, rippling amusement.

_Hi, Miss Quietlistener._

_Hey, Ann. Welcome to a new aspect of your ability._

_Why don’t you want Mr. Lehnsherr to know? You like him, and you will have to deal with this sooner or later._

_… Denying at this point will not help me much, will it?_

_No, it won’t. You like him, that is quite obvious. And I am sure he likes you too._ Ann Marie’s voice has a tint of typical enthrallment of best friends of romance comedy heroines, which makes Charles ponder what teenage girls nowadays absorb from television.

“Mr. Lehnsherr, would you mind getting us some water, please? Pretty please?”

When Erik walks towards the kitchen Charles moves swiftly towards the table and grabs Greyish Red’s letter and the replies and shoves them into a drawer, as naturally as possible. He gives Rogue a thankful look and the girl beams back.

The conversation continues as Charles pumps air into the mattress and watching it inflate. Erik walks back with two cups of water with a content look on his face, not quite noticing what Charles just hid away. For a second, Charles had the illusion of Erik being a father and Ann Marie being his daughter.

He has a hunch that Erik will be a decent father, even with his telepathic powers still dull and buzzing numbly in the back of his head, because this time he only needed his brain and his heart to make the deduction.


	9. Miss Quietlistener falls silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik get a moment for themselves after Ann Marie goes to bed. Charles sees a bit more into Erik's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS ARE WARMING UP FOR CHARLES AND ERIK AND I AM HAPPY FOR THEM!!
> 
> Just started my sophomore year of college, I hope that does not take my time away too much!

Ann is sound asleep on the mattress moments after she slouched into it, leaving Charles and Erik in the now dimly lit living room. Charles turned the lights off so that the flares and glares of New York City start to creep into the loaded silence between the two.

They look at Rogue's tranquil sleeping face for a short while. It is bizarre how revealing one's vulnerability draw people closer. Charles feels like a parent more than ever. The sense of responsibility makes his heart swell.

Miss Quietlistener will help you, my child. And so will Charles Xavier. He swears he will save you with all the tenderness, patience and love he has to offer.

“Maybe I should leave," explains Erik, the sentence a statement and a query at the same time.

"Shh... Why not try to take in the view?"

Charles does not blurt out the hushing sound as a dismissive signal; rather, he coaxes the man next to him into standing closer to the glass pane acting as the wall, as well as closer to Charles.

Their breaths fog up the glass. The spectacles of Broadway are refracted by the milky clots of water vapor, like a distant dream, out of focus. The city clamors on. And at this very moment, Charles gets to spend a moment of joint solitude with Erik. And it is quiet and beautiful.

It is like the walk back from the CD rental all over again.

Charles enjoys watching the giant, digital eyes of the city blink at night, the images and texts flushed in and out of those screens. The lights from the buildings, the cars, and the blue radiation emitted from the electronics. Together they form an orchestra of color. And he will sit there, silent in awe and fatigue at the same time, and feel a pang of smallness hit him. In front of the hundreds of thousands of murmuring human minds and the fruit of their civilization, he cannot help but feel as if he is as tiny as a grain of sand, as a fleeting thought.

But with Erik by his side, he is glad there is someone who can share these with him. Instead of a sense of hopelessness, Erik's presence kindles a spark inside him, and it hops on to set the rest of his glooms on fire.

He wonders if Erik thinks the same way. In the darkness, he cannot tell his facial expression, but he can see his irises taking in the carnival of the night. The clearest sensory input from the man is his shallow breaths. And the fragrance of a crisp, refreshing aftershave flavored like cedar.

"Um, if you want to stay a little bit longer, my friend, we can go into my room."

Charles suggests in a lowered voice, not looking into the other's direction.

Is the offer a little flirtatious? Charles regrets having that conversation with Ann Marie earlier, otherwise, he would not have had such precautions in mind.

"If you don't mind, Charles."

The veil of night over the apartment has sharpened his sense of hearing, and the way Erik pronounces his name sends a thrill down Charles' spine. He can almost hear how Erik's tongue touches the roof of his mouth, to how the tip of his tongue curls to produce the perfect "ar" sound, to how air travels through the seam between those compact teeth.

And the husk in his voice. Charles imagines Erik's Adam's apple shifting up and down as the man swallows.

"I do not mind at all. I can pour you some scotch."

Erik must have heard the smile in Charles' voice, for Erik chuckles too.

  
Chess over scotch has been proven to be a delightful idea. They are sitting on Charles' bed; luckily the bedroom was cleaned this morning. Charles is holding his silvery white knight and leaning close over the chessboard, calculating the next move, the cold metallic piece drawing heat from his fingers, while Erik takes a sip from his glass. The amber liquid moistens his upper lip.

The white piece marches and corners the black king. Charles looks up from the chess board with a heartfully cheery smile.

"Checkmate, my friend."

And Erik just looks at him as if he wishes he could stop time.

  
_**Snap.** _

Charles' telepathy swarms back to him in the form of a chainsaw splitting open his skull. The tide of human minds catches him off guard, as he crouches back into his side of the bed, his hands rubbing his temples, attempting to soothe himself.

_Why would this happen to me... I wish I can have all that money... I love you... I am very happy now... I hate her, I hope she would die... Grandma is sick... It took him really long to propose..._

_Charles, what happened? Charles... He looks hurt... Protect him..._

Erik's inner voice is tense, almost coarse. Yet Charles clenches to it in the bombardment of thoughts as if it is a clump of drifting wood carrying him to his land of sanity.

Care. Concern. Comfort.

Charles lets out a moan and pieces himself together to face Erik's worried eyes of a mellow shade of green. His forehead glitters with cold sweat, strands of his chestnut hair sticking to his skin like dark brown veins.

"My powers just got back, Erik."

He tries to be cheerful but Erik is not loosened. The taller man nudges closer towards him, his thin lips pressing together to form a pale line.

"When you first got your powers, Charles, did you feel that way too?"

Coming to think of it, Charles' power did barge and cram into his life. He was brutally woken up by a cracking head and constant murmurs in his frightful ears. And for a while, he thought he was insane, and seriously considered asking his parents to send him into an asylum.

He is lucky to have Raven; to be more specific, to have someone like him growing up by his side. When her powers first manifested, Raven was not as terrified as her brother was. The little girl turned out to be better at embracing her gift, as well as her azure scales and maroon hair. Her brother, on the other hand, insisted on protecting her and that she should keep her cobalt eyes and sun-colored hair in front of the others. Charles believed he was guiding his younger sister in the right direction. He knew at a young age that people like him and Raven must be able to make peace with humans, otherwise, they can be easily wiped out like a rain droplet on a window. Perhaps that was where the thought of being Miss Quietlistener was planted deep inside his mind.

Charles nods, his smile drifting and slightly bitter.

"Yes, Erik, it did hurt like this."

Then, in a moment of drowning silence, Erik reaches out and gently pats Charles on the back of his neck, almost like a caress.

"I am sorry, Charles. It must have been difficult."

Another layer of pain hides underneath the whisper. Charles sees candlelight and a woman's face, and a touching sensation of delightful sorrow. Erik's emotions are interwoven together, filling up Charle's heart like warm air filling a balloon.

Erik was a little boy at that time. Yet the grief intertwined in his nest of emotions drives tears glistening on Charles' face.

"I am sorry that you had to face these, too."

The two wounded men look at each other. There is also a veil of tears over Erik's green eyes.

"... May I hug you, my friend?"

  
In their insulated capsule away from the clatters of the city, Charles hugs Erik. Erik's shoulders are broad and firm, and Charles hopes his own temperature can dissolve all the sadness in Erik's life: in his past, present and future, there will always be a hopeful sunbeam, and the source will be Charles.


End file.
